It Can Only Get Better
by Mana Angel
Summary: A fic of a different color: Logos-centric one-shot. Faced with rain, fiends, and a baby chocobo, a typical trip on the Highroad turns sour for everyone's favorite gunslinger. [v.2: slightly better?]


Title: It Can Only Get Better…

Author: Mana Angel

Archive/Print/Save: YESYESYES – just ask first. ~.^

Warnings: Mild to severe OOCness, some swearing, and violence of the ripping-up-fiends sort. The end.

Notes: …can be found at the end. I will say, however, that I realize quite a few things wrong with this, but it was FUN TO WRITE which is what REALLY matters! :D :D :D This is also my first real fic in a while. Cut me some slack? ;_;

v.1: Jan 17, 2004: First version of fic up. Disgusting and horrible. End is being rewritten, trust me…

v.2 Jan 19, 2004: Not much better than the original, but last sequence reads a bit better. :D

Damn.

Logos was not pleased.

He was coatless, freezing, and wet, and the cloth-covered thing in his lap flopped damply in a gesture of utter helplessness.

Double damn.

Somewhere inside his brain, a little train of thought was chugging along, muttering darkly that he _ought to have listened to the snooty, more caustic half of his personality (which was currently sulking in its own gloomily-lit, leather-infested corner of his mind). He really should've. And then maybe he wouldn't be in this mess now. But oh __no, he'd seen a tiny blot of yellow in the grass as the hover rumbled along the road to the Travel Agency, and just __had to stop it and go down to investigate. And tripped over the hideously impractical (or just plain hideous) clogs he wore for footwear, in the process. _Ormi_ was supposed to be the clumsy one, wasn't he? _

Dusting himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, Logos had proceeded with the 'investigation,' grimacing mildly as the hover driver cheerfully left. He hadn't been the only passenger headed for the Agency, and so with a wave and an apology, the pilot moved on, with a promise to return when his rounds were done. 

Logos had said that he'd prefer walking, thank you very much. Though Leblanc had pointedly ordered him to report to the Mi'ihen Travel Agency as soon as he could (Ormi had been behind her, wearing a look of great suffering – the gunslinger suspected he had narrowly escaped being hooked into one of his boss's shopping sprees), Logos had good reason to believe that she simply had some kind of business with the Gullwings that she'd prefer not to deal with herself. Especially with that 'Tidus' guy around, who seemed to unsettle the boss quite a bit. 

Although it was _entirely speculation on his part, Logos was of the opinion that maybe Leblanc was actually __jealous of Yuna, comparing the former summoner's blooming love life with her own, sadly inadequate (or depending on who you asked, __inactive) one. He queasily wondered if she would start – fayth forbid – bringing _strange_ men home. Noojie-woojie wasn't proving to be much of a romantic, and Logos wasn't on friendly terms with him, as such, he didn't much like the idea of having to get used all over again to some other character hanging all over his fan-brandishing leader._

Of course, he would never say this aloud to anyone. Leblanc had, it seemed, quite forgotten about giving Ormi and himself 'the heel' for disobeying her towards the end of the Vegnagun incident, and he preferred that it should stay that way. 

But back to the bedraggled thing he'd found in a clearing off the highroad.

_"…Well." There really wasn't a particularly apt phrase for what he was seeing. It was a rather miserable looking…thing_, covered entirely with what might've been soft, downy feathers in a mind-boggling hue of yellow, darkened and stained with mud and grime. Logos had an educated guess about what the huddled creature was, the easily identifiable reek of chocobo permeating the air around it. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. Ugh. He'd never _liked_ chocobos. The very idea of it made his face turn into rather novel colors of puce.__

_After one (reluctant) visit to the 'Chocobo Ranch' Yuna had helped Clasko set up, he quite felt that the world had just become a lot scarier. The thought of the ex-Chocobo Knight having children who were just as obsessed with chocobos as he was made the uneasily fazed gunman's blood run cold. Hell, Clasko would probably marry_ a chocobo, if he could.__

_Staring dubiously at the thing in front of him, Logos thought that perhaps he was mistaken. This couldn't be a chocobo, could it? Its head was too big, its tail all but nonexistent, and surely the chocobos he'd seen had much stronger necks, not a feather-covered wire that made the head wobble precariously from side to side. For another thing, he easily towered over it, and even had to squat down, balancing nimbly on his toes, to get a closer look at it._

_That definitely _isn't a chocobo, he thought, a few minutes later. It had the beak, sure, and probably the featherless legs tucked under it, but he was pretty sure no chocobos were made this way. (Obviously, no one had seen fit to hand him a little children's book on 'baby' and 'grown-up' animals.) As far as Logos understood, chocobos mass-produced little clones of themselves, and then they just ate until they grew big as adults before starting the process again. It never occurred to him that perhaps they had a stage where they didn't look remotely similar to their parents.__

_However, musings on the nature of chocobos and their progeny were interrupted by the chocobo opening its eyes, tilting its head to one side, and saying, "Kweh?"_

_Logos froze._

_"Kweee!" Its voice was steadier now, and it bobbed its head forward, as though nodding in approval (or, as the apparently-immobile sharpshooter was thinking, preparing itself before it gouged a hole in his brain). Unsteadily, the chocobo began to sway onto its feet, its copious amount of crest feathers bobbing in the air like a mad mohawk. Lurching forward, it promptly sprawled flat on its face. In the meantime Logos found, to his utter disgust, that he had edged away from the bird's advances, almost backing into the thick grasses. Honestly, where was his pride? _

_It had probably, like the rest of his sensible personality traits, taken an extended vacation. Common sense had apparently left with them, because when the chocobo lifted its face up to reveal soulful blue eyes swimming dangerously with tears, Logos' resolve crumbled like a cookie in a toddler's hand. Slowly, he began to unbuckle the straps holding his outer coat shut, shrugging out of it once he had done so. Turning the material around to gaze at the insignia sewn onto the back for a moment, he allowed himself a small sigh of regret. _

_The inevitable mess on this would take a heavy toll on his laundry bill, assuming it was even useable after what he had in mind. He shivered slightly as the cold nipped his partially-bare arms – unlike Ormi, his depressingly skintight inner shirt didn't reach to his wrists, the billowing material of his now-discarded garment normally more than enough to keep him warm. The sleeves on this__ number, alas, reached the paltry length that approximated mid-bicep._

_Coat held tight in gloved hands, he reached over to pick the chocobo up in it – only to yelp as his left foot dipped into a mud-filled depression in the ground that he had somehow managed to avoid falling into. Muttering under his breath, he attempted to wriggle his foot loose of the sucking dirt. The mudhole had other ideas, unfortunately, and much to his chagrin, his shoe was swallowed into the murk with a final-sounding 'gloop'. Splendid._

_The chocobo gave a tinny-sounding 'wark,' likely sensing that its prey was coming nearer and pleased at the prospect of fresh blood. It canted its head to one side, staring at the coat with, for lack of a more appropriate word, suspicion. Grimacing ruefully, Logos didn't bother to wipe the mud off his bandage-bound ankle and foot before swooping down to pick the chocobo up in the coat he held with both arms, tucking the cloth securely around it like swaddling rags. "You've caused quite enough trouble," he scolded, attempting to stare it in the eye. All the chocobo did was blink… before warking again and proceeding to nuzzle its head against his chest. He sighed, continuing to hold and eye the feathered menace as though it were the most terrifying fiend on Spira._

_Actually, that wasn't exactly true – the only things Logos really held and eyed as though they were the most terrifying fiends on Spira were babies__. He never wanted to meet Baby Vidina. Ever._

_Still, he couldn't leave this thing here, could he? And then a brilliant idea struck: _

_He'd give it to the Gullwings._

_"Everything will be alright now," he told the fuzzy bundle solemnly, even mustering enough of a good mood to pat it in the general region of its back._

_With a sound not unlike a burp, the chocobo made an alarming gurgling noise in its throat – and promptly vomited on the front of his shirt._

_And then it began to rain._

The majority of the sticky-warm mess was washed off during the uncomfortably _wet trek to the ruins they sat in now, so Logos sulkily crossed his arms across his chest, grumpy that he could do nothing but wait for rescue. His guns, securely holstered, lay within arms-reach, removed from their usual moorings on either hip. Much as he liked the safety they guaranteed, even__ he couldn't stand having them dig into his hips _all_ the time._

He doubted he'd be going anytime soon. Although the machina on Mi'ihen Highroad were relatively waterproof, considering the amount of moisture condensed from the air during the night, the hovers probably weren't. He'd seen them in operation in the Bikanel Desert, and guessed that they weren't meant for use in watery locales. Even if they were damp-proof, the hovers propeller would blow the water _everywhere, which would result in decidedly unhappy, irritated riders._

No, Logos decided. If there was any fiend-free travel available on the Highroad, it could only be chocoboback. And even then, the birds were skittish enough during Mi'ihen's usual climate; sunny, cheerful days with the slightest traces of clouds towards the horizon. The current foul weather would probably drive the timid birds _insane. _

 ….He was, apparently, going to be stuck here for a long, _long_ time. Oh glory. The chocobo nestled in the rough nest of his coat over folded legs seemed happy enough with the situation, much to Logos' annoyance, and refused to budge no matter how hard he attempted to pry it off. It was probably a good thing he had extremely well-practiced bladder control.

"So, what do we do now?" he half-asked the feather-festooned creature, more out of the need to hear a human voice than to actually receive an answer. It _was only a chocobo, after all. He'd been conversing absently to it for the better part of the past half-hour, and though Logos maintained all the outward tranquility of a still pond, his innards felt like they were twisting themselves into uncomfortable knots. The half-collapsed dome they were huddled under was the only available cover for a good distance around, and though the fiends might be nothing more than pyreflies given a solid form, he suspected the monsters might seek shelter from the rain, anyway._

Just in case, he uncrossed his arms and edged one hand closer to the guns. Better to be safe than sorry.

~::~::~::~::~::~::~

Logos didn't know when he had dropped off into sleep, but when a harsh cawing started to echo around the dome-shaped ruin, rebounding and echoing until it became loud enough to be heard over the drumming of the storm, he instinctively half-lurched to his feet and reached for his guns…

…which were no longer where he had left them? Cursing a blue streak as he groped around in the darkness (_when had it gotten so dark? Hadn't it been only midday when he had ducked into the protection of the old tower?), his sleep-fogged brain dully noted that he coat had limply slipped off his lap as he stood, with no sign of the chocobo that had used it for bedding. It only took a moment for Logos to briefly touch the dyed cloth – it was quite cool, indicating that the bird may have left some time ago. Or maybe it was just the chill the rain seemed to wrap around itself, much like a favorite shawl._

He had more pressing things on his mind to think about other than a bird that could very well be shivering, or sick, or wet, or all three things put together. It was the chocobo's own fault if it got into trouble, and it was just as well. One less thing to worry about, and it meant that all he would have to look after was himself. Especially with, well…

What felt like a thousand eyes stared down at him maliciously. Feeling the pressure of many, less-than-friendly gazes, Logos glanced around warily. The harsh calls had alerted him to their presence, but the fiends they had originated from where nowhere in sight.

…Were they?

Logos looked up, slowly. At least ten Divebeaks, blue feathers dark and dripping from the downpour they had just escaped, looked at him impassively. The hole in the ceiling they had likely entered by was just the right size for them to pass through, and provided just enough natural light – such as there _was_, despite the clouds – for him to see the tiny eyes set in their arrow-shaped skulls glint in what he guessed might be eerie anticipation. If they even felt anything.

He froze where he was, unmoving and breathing as lightly as he could, deliberately trying to draw attention away from himself. Perhaps, if he was motionless enough, their gazes would pass over him. _Fat chance of that_, a cynical voice in his brain commented snidely. _They've been here since you woke up. They know__ you're here with them._

_That doesn't mean I have to make it easier for them, Logos thought back with a sneer of his own, firmly quashing the mental presence before it could babble any more useless advice. He regretted removing the coat - it would have at least provided his arms with some protection from getting chunks gouged out of them. Another regret was removing the guns from his person. He should have, __could have borne the mild discomfort they caused, but his body had chosen a fine time to be delicate._

_Not much better than that girly praetor now, am I? he thought, almost giving a rueful grimace before remembering he wasn't exactly in the safest company. A beating of wings drew his attention to the opening in the ceiling once again. This time he was unable to suppress a grimace, though he did manage to choke down a particularly colorful word – squeezing in, slightly larger than their differently-hued kin, three Peregrines tipped the odds further in the fiends' favor. _

Thirteen clawed, beaked menaces against one, weaponless, slightly underweight man who hadn't fought hand-to-hand in over three years. Wonderful. Logos would have quite  preferred to run, and run fast, but the birds were perched on ornamental railing just above the only man-sized exit. Stretching his mouth into a reckless grin that made him look more like he had a case of severe constipation, he carefully shifted into a fighting stance, the muscles of both arms tensed in preparation to beat the living (or nonliving?) crap out of at least half of the fiends. 

The monsters, for their part, seemed to be conferring among themselves, and he wondered again if he should try to make a break for it. No – there were far too many of them, and even if he did manage to get out, they open air would still provide them with a greater advantage over a landbound two-legger, rain or no. Better to keep them in the shattered tower, where their fighting style was at least partially cramped. With a final ruffling of feathers, all thirteen fiends turned to him, bracing their wings to dive-

_"Kweeeeeeeeeeee!"_

With a screech that would have done any drama major proud, a Divebeak crashed to the floor, the large orange beak of whatever had leapt on it pounding its head until the fiend dissipated into a cloud of pyreflies. Logos blinked at the vicious creature that had assaulted the monster, and then, unable to see clearly enough, instead recalled its cry earlier on. "You're that chocobo!" he said, though he wasn't sure if it really was. Or at least, that was what he would have said. The gunless gunman opened his mouth and got as far as "You—" before the rest of the Divebeak's companions shrilled their own cries and swooped down, beak-first.

_I can't believe I'm_ fighting beside a _chocobo. The thought repeated in his mind endlessly even as he mechanically ducked, rolled, and seized a small chunk of stone that had been part of the building at some point. With a small prayer to Lady Luck, Logos pitched it forcefully at a Divebeak's head, pleased when it exploded into pyreflies in mid-air. __Two down, eleven to go…_

The most insulting thing about the situation, he decided, was that the chocobo was _doing better than him. Surrounded by beating wings and deafened by harsh calls, he swung away from one bird's furious attack only to feel another's claws hook into the region of his back. Viciously, he spun and slammed back-first to the wall, crushing the fiend with his own body. A good thing it was a Divebeak; if it had been a Peregrine, __he would be the one dissolving into a cloud of light._

The chocobo seemed in its element, small as it was. As two Divebeaks rushed towards it, it sprinted away, weaving and bobbing among the pieces of rubble that littered the floor until both its pursuers met their second deaths by ungracefully crashing into the walls. As the chocobo passed him by, Logos could've sworn it had smirked, the corners of its eyes crinkling in mischief. His attention was drawn back to his own fight as an attack glanced off the well-made helmet he wore, feeling his skin break out in goosebumps at the shrill shriek of beak against metal.

He tried to seize the bird – whatever color it was – by the tail feathers, but it evaded his grip with the loss of one plume, tearing at the tender flesh of his forearm for his pains. Yelping, he quickly jerked back his hand, lightly touching the wound to find that it was not as long as he had thought, though that was none too comforting. A small but deep wound was far deadlier than a long but shallow one, particularly when in was inflicted on the right place. Fending off two more of the fiends' sallies at his eyes, he glanced around quickly, formulating numbers in his head.

_Five down, eight to go. Keeping count was an old habit, borne of many a fight. When he had his guns, anyway. By keeping track of each shot, he always knew how much ammunition he had left, guaranteeing that he would never find himself pulling the trigger at the last enemy only to hear an empty __click. In this considerably less elegant brawl, however, the almost-automatic counting guarded against the off chance that some of the birds might conceal themselves and then ambush him when his guard was down._

Logos was not going to be caught _that way. With an almost vicious smile, heedless of the wounds on his arms and torso, he sent another fiend to the Farplane with a sharp kick that snapped its neck. __Six… _

~::~::~::~::~::~::~

Breathing heavily, and looking quite the worse for wear, man and chocobo looked toward the last two Peregrines with something approaching triumph, if they hadn't been so weary. The bird-fiends had seemed to reconsider their tactics after the unlikely pair had pounded the seventh Divebeak into oblivion. Instead of bypassing them one at a time, reaching out with delicate talons to cut past cloth, or tear away feathers. They'd lunged at the both of them in a cloud of rage and hate and ferocity, meaning, Logos was sure, to make the both of them into fiends as well.

The fact that they still stood, although shakily, spoke loudly enough of what had resulted. 

The odds had been evened – tipped in their favor, in fact. The Peregrines didn't seem to see the danger they were in, however, and maintained the cool, studious look that all their species seemed to possess, though one, half-hiding behind the other, had already been injured, blood splashing onto the stones with each wingbeat. Logos and the chocobo had pressed them into a corner of the shattered building, preventing them from flying up or ducking past. Abruptly, almost as though acting on an agreed signal, they both lunged at the nearer, more aggressive Peregrine that seemed to be protecting the other, a hand grabbing a leg and a beak seizing the other. Between them, they tore it into two.

With that, Logos collapsed heavily, kneeling in the midst of the pyreflies that lightly batted his face like a cool breeze. He trusted the chocobo to be able to deal with the other peregrine on its own – which is why his head jerked up, almost comically surprised, when something flew past him to crash into the wall with a strangled 'Kweee!'. Whipping around, his eyes widened and he cursed his own stupidity. Of course. Thirteen birds, and he hadn't encountered any before coming here.

The peregrine had grown at least twice its original size, and light rippled across its feathers disconcertingly. It glared at them, openly malevolent with its increased strength, and almost certainly prepared to wreak vengeance for its fallen comrades. Its earlier wounds, Logos noted clinically, had stopped bleeding, and its flesh was beginning to knit together fast. Damned Oversoul… He had to think of something, and quickly.

He wasn't given a chance to, because just as quickly and unexpectedly as it had rushed the chocobo, it fiercely butted _him_, sending him slamming him into the wall a good distance away and making black spots dance across his vision. Logos shook his head, trying to stand up. Lying like this, he was a sitting duck, and so was the chocobo. As the fiend advanced, he waited for his life to pass before his eyes. That was what happened when you were about to die, wasn't it? ….Admittedly, he found himself acutely wishing he'd at least been taken down by something that didn't just look like a particularly gangly pigeon.

_"Kweeeeeeeeeeee!"_

For the second time in…what? Five minutes? Ten? An hour? - He found himself jolted out of tense expectation by a shrill, warbling note. The Peregrine paused and turned blank eyes to face the direction the cry had come from, and with his peripheral vision, Logos felt more than saw the chocobo's approach. "_No! You little fool, don't come any—" _Too late. __

A flash of lightning briefly bathed the inside of the tower in light as, with an almost lazy twitch of a wing, the enormous Peregrine calmly backhanded the chocobo into the wall. This time, a dull crack resounded, and Logos found himself removed from what had just happened. In the brief moment when the lightning had illuminated the chocobo's feathers, he'd seen their color, something he hadn't been able to before. 

Its feathers were black. This wasn't the same bird he'd rescued…was it?

It didn't matter, because he really couldn't feel anything beyond numbness. Though he had the vaguest feeling he ought to feel strange about not seeing through his own eyes, Logos calmly watched himself scrabble for a rock – a piece of wood – _anything to attack the Peregrine, destroy it, make it _pay_ – and suddenly stop, realization dawning, as a hand clamped over very familiar leather-encased metal constructs. Numb with… _something_, he lifted the gun, aimed coolly at its wedge-shaped head, and fired._

Again.

And again.

And again.

And even when the fiend had long dispersed into pyreflies, nothing resounding but the monotonous clicking of an empty gun and the rumble of thunder and rain overhead, Logos continued to pull the trigger until his world went black.

~::~::~::~::~::~::~

He was floating, he thought. In a sea of white. He couldn't see himself, he found, as he experimentally lifted a hand to look at it. He could _feel_ his limb moving, but he didn't _see_ anything. It was very strange, he thought. He couldn't sense anything except his own mind and the whiteness, and that was okay with him. He liked it here. It was quiet, and nothing hurt, and – wait. That wasn't quite right. He felt something pounding his skull, like maybe an oversized mallet, and though he could have sworn he couldn't hear before, a tinny shrilling began to fill his ears.

_Madame! I do not appreciate my patients being disturbed! The young man needs his rest if he is to fully reco—_

_I don't care! Something in the background crashed, and the voice became clearer.__  Logos, wake **up**!_

"Don't want to," he mumbled hoarsely, rolling over, away from the noise and nuzzling into something soft. Since when had he been lying down? He heard, or thought he heard, a soft gasp, and then the second voice returned, triumphant.

_You see? He's already conscious! Perfectly alright. Thank you very much for you help, love, but I'll be taking it from here._

Something was familiar about that voice…?

_His condition remains delicate. He's broken a few ribs. The speaker sounded stiff, as though he were grating the words out painfully. __I hardly see why he should be moved at your whim__, Miss Leblanc—_

Leblanc?

He must've said it aloud, because he felt someone moving next to whatever he was lying on, sitting on the bed. "What is it, love?" Spoken words sounded clearer now, and he could separate it from the continuous humming in the background. _Machina…? Perhaps he said that aloud again, or the speaker was assuming he was thinking about it. "You're in Rin's Travel Agency, on the Mi'ihen Highroad." She, or he assumed it was a she, clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You've caused quite a commotion, being found unconscious and injured about halfway from the southern exit... Now, how many fingers am I holding up?" Reluctantly, still clinging to blissful unconsciousness, he opened his eyes._

Logos fell into a world of bright lights and painful sensations all down his torso. He blinked at the glove-clad hand thrust into his face, and croaked an answer. "Two?" He glanced up at the owner of the hand, somehow not very surprised to find that it was attached to an arm, which was in turn attached to a currently relieved-looking Leblanc. "Hello," he greeted. And then, "I don't feel very well." Maybe he'd turned green or something that similarly indicated his dilemma, and they thankfully got the basin to him in time.

Wincing at the sour taste of bile still in his throat – someone handed him a towel to with his face with, and he accepted it gingerly – he blinked around, as though seeing everything for the first time. More conscious, now, he noted the slight tightness of some areas of skin, which on closer inspection turned out to be either wrapped in bandages or stitched up. Only two people were in the room besides himself – Leblanc(who seemed to have exercised her usual ability to barge in anywhere), and an elderly Al Bhed, the latter with a face like a thunderstorm.

The door banged open without warning, and suddenly Ormi was there, breathing heavily. "You're awake!" he trumpeted, in a voice raucous enough to wake the dead. He made as if to advance to the bedside and give the patient one of his infamous 'huggles'. Logos preferred not to be on the receiving end of such and affectionate display, so he shrank away. Guiltily relieved when the doctor took out his ire on the stout man, he nodded when the latter called back that he would visit Logos later on. The thinner man suppressed laughter for the sake of his injured body, hiding a grin as the doctor shooed his partner away with all the protectiveness of a mother hen.

Logos found himself grinning, a bit weakly, but the smile trembled and held. He felt markedly better, though… very, very tired. Gingerly laying his head back down on the bed, a thought occurred to him, though he was far too exhausted to work himself up over it. Maybe they'd given him painkillers, or something, because his mind felt fuzzier than a Coeurl's bottom. "What happened to the…" _Yawn. "…chocobo, near me?" Leblanc swam in and out of focus, though he did see her turn to him in surprise._

"A chocobo?" Leblanc's tone was enough of a negative, the ornamental pins on her head brushing against each other with muted clinks. "Can't say we saw anything remotely like one around you." She canted her head to one side, narrowing her eyes at him speculatively, before seemingly deciding to indulge him. "…Well… there _were a few feathers around you, but they were all black, like this one." With a flourish, she whipped out a downy black feather from a fold in her clothing. "Can't think where they came from, though – maybe a Zu?" While she ruminated, Leblanc idly twirled the feather's quill between thumb and forefinger, the fan in her other hand rhythmically tapping against her knee._

"Can't see why you ask, though – don't you _hate_ chocobos?"

Logos stared at the feather dancing through Leblanc's fingers a moment, then gave a small chuckle. "Let's just say… I understand them better." Before Leblanc could open her mouth to voice another query, the doctor returned, fussing over how she had gone well over the five minutes allowed for each visitor. Annoyed, she turned to snap at Logos one more time, only to find that he had rolled over – and was, annoying enough, fast asleep. Scowling, she began to stalk away – then paused to lay the feather on the bedside table before stepping out of the room.

After all, Logos might want a better look at it when he woke up again.

---END

Author's Notes: It's an actual in-game fact that Bird-type fiends (Peregrines and Divebeaks are examples) oversoul once you've defeated twelve. The specific species doesn't matter, as long as you kill the right number of the same type, they'll oversoul. Funnily enough, I'd already typed out the number of Bird-type fiends I wanted to use before I thought to check online strategy guides.

However, I didn't have reference for the kind of attacks an oversoul peregrine uses. So I made that up. :D

…Also, I have no idea what the hell happened in the second half. It was supposed to be cute and fluffy, dammit. 

I was tempted to make the last section be from the chocobo's point of view, just for a twist, but I was too lazy to change my game plan. So!

v.2 notes

It's still a world of suck, but the last section is rather better so I'm happy. Thanks for the reviews, older readers, and I hope you enjoy this new version better if you took the time to read it again.

Comments are niiiiice. ^_^


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